


Of Beauty Rituals and Experiments in Jealousy

by Emily_Nicaoidh, thingssherlockshouldwear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Jealous John Watson, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mind Palace, Miscommunication, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 03, Rimming, Sherlock declares his love, Top John Watson, Virgin Sherlock, oh my god they were roommates, s4 is non existent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emily_Nicaoidh/pseuds/Emily_Nicaoidh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingssherlockshouldwear/pseuds/thingssherlockshouldwear
Summary: When John accidentally sees part of Sherlock’s beauty ritual, the reaction it sparks surprises both men. Sherlock experiments in an attempt to parse his growing feelings for John, but will his experiments do more harm than good?Note: S4 is FAKE. READ THIS AND PRETEND IT NEVER HAPPENED.





	1. Monday, 5:30 PM

**Author's Note:**

> Kiki (thingssherlockshouldwear) and I started talking about Sherlock's beauty rituals and realized that we had to write a fic about this. It started out as a 5+1, but then we realized as it grew and morphed into its current form that it fit better as a multi chapter fic loosely based on the 5+1 idea. We decided to alternate writing chapters, and we'll be posting them monday nights starting today for the next five weeks. We like to think that Sherlock has a decadent, indulgent beauty ritual. It’s been fun writing this together and we hope you enjoy our fic!

Sherlock opened the medicine cabinet in 221B at precisely 5:31 PM on Monday. The hinges on the medicine cabinet in which no actual medicines were kept creaked softly, and Sherlock put a sticky note on the violin stand in his mind palace to remind himself to WD-40 it afterwards. He barely looked at the shelves as he reached for the small, walnut-coloured jar whose label was hand-lettered in French on the upper left-hand shelf. The pot scraped slightly over the stamped white-on-black plastic label that read Monday as he lifted it off the shelf. 

 

Setting it on the counter carefully (the chemist who made it had been, well, not quite a friend of his in graduate school, but an acquaintance certainly, and sometimes a collaborator, and the man had retired to Perpignan at the age of 32 after making a quick fortune in the cosmetics industry from a patent to ‘pursue his creative vision’, as Sherlock would tease him gently on his semi-annual visits, rolling his eyes but handing over £315 for a year’s supply of the perfect face cream without complaint.), Sherlock reached for the other container that stood behind the monday label: a thin glass jar with no label containing a tincture that he made himself. 

 

Spraying a little of the tincture on a worn, silk-blend flannel, Sherlock rubbed at his jaw, the skin still smooth from the morning’s shave. Through controlled experimentation he had found that the cream in the walnut-coloured jar worked best if he had shaved precisely nine hours prior to applying it, and its addition to his monday routine was the primary reason that Sherlock bothered to shave at all on Monday mornings. He had refined the products he preferred in his routine over the years, but the one thing that never varied was the time. At 5:30 PM on the dot every Monday, barring an unfortunately long stakeout or an uncooperative witness, Sherlock was in the bathroom, lifting the jar and the bottle off the shelf and starting his wash. He didn’t bother to close the bathroom door; John usually stayed at work at least half an hour late on Mondays and Sherlock didn’t expect him home for some time. 

 

He finished wiping his face down and let the crumpled flannel fall to the counter, replaced the cap on the bottle and set it back on the top of the shelf. Now, the best part. He unscrewed the tarnished bronze lid from the little walnut jar and set it on the counter, dipped two fingers into the charcoal-black, rose scented cream and lifted them to his nose, letting his eyes lazily fall shut as he inhaled deeply. Tucking a grown-out curl behind his right ear (damn, did he need a haircut again? It couldn’t have been more than two weeks since the last trim), he rubbed the cream first into his cheek, his violin-callused fingers moving in slow circles. 

 

John had called it a day early; throwing his stethoscope down onto his desk in frustration only a second after showing his last patient out the door. Almost every patient of the day had been a complete nightmare, for a succession of reasons each more bizarre than the next: a hypochondriac who was certain he had the plague; a man with a cold sore who thought it was anthrax, a woman who thought her cold sore was a deadly spider bite and who came in immediately following the not-anthrax man ( John suspected that one of them had given the cold sore to the other), a baby who was barely running a fever but who vomited on him more times than should have been possible for a child with such a small stomach--and that had been before lunch. 

 

Foregoing the sure frustration and wait of the Tube, he had walked home, letting the day’s many irritations slide off of him with the light rain that started to fall as he walked. When he  reached Baker Street forty minutes later, his mood was much improved. He unlocked the front door and called a quiet greeting to Mrs. Hudson, who was doing her washing up in the kitchen of 221C.  He climbed the stairs, shucked his jacket and dropped it on his armchair. Figuring he would have a shower and then see about dinner, John toed off his shoes and walked down the hall to where the bathroom door stood slightly ajar. 

 

His hand hovered above the doorknob poised to open it farther when he realised that the bathroom was actually occupied. 

 

Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, wearing those ratty old silk pajama bottoms that meant he clearly had not left the house all day and incidentally that drew John’s attention far too easily to parts of Sherlock that he preferred to think about when there was no chance of his thoughts being deduced--that Sherlock stood in front of the mirror, wearing a dressing gown with the sleeves rolled up in place of an actual shirt, stood in front of the mirror with his eyes half shut, looking far more relaxed than John had seen him look in years, his hand to his face, smoothing some kind of cream into the shadow of his jaw, and John’s heart had stuttered a bit as he took in the light glinting off of the few drops of water that stuck to Sherlock’s damp, lank hair.  

 

The expression of utter bliss that Sherlock wore openly on his face did something to John that he was afraid to examine too closely.  John stumbled a few steps back, his hand flying away from the doorknob as if burned, and he turned and fled to his room. 

  
  



	2. Tuesday, Late at Night

A couple of weeks later on a Tuesday, Sherlock and John spent long hours at Scotland Yard. 

They apprehended a suspect in an arson case and the man kept giving false statements. After five hours of fruitless questioning, Sherlock was finally able to deduce where the man hid his gas-soaked clothes. This caused the suspect to break down in tears and confess to committing the crime.

It was already a quarter past ten in the evening when the detective and his blogger trudged up the stairs to 221B. John immediately went up to his room, kicked off his shoes and collapsed on his bed without even changing his clothes.

Sherlock had other plans though.

It was time for his beauty ritual.

Just because he missed his usual 5:30 P.M. schedule, it certainly didn’t mean that he would go to bed without his skincare routine. It was unthinkable. Especially on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were for exfoliating treatments––and Sherlock just  _ loved  _ exfoliating.

When he was sure that John was fast asleep, Sherlock went to the bathroom but left the door slightly ajar. He started to take off his clothes until he was wearing nothing but his trousers––and what a flattering pair of trousers they were. Bespoke. Expensive. The kind that hung low on his hips but hugged his figure just right. The fabric did wonders for his thighs and his lovely derriere.

Sherlock took a deep breath and released all the tension of the day with a great exhale. He then opened the medicine cabinet and reached deep into one of the upper shelves, behind a stamped, black-on-white label that read TUESDAY, where he hid a thin tube of foaming cleanser. It was an Arab brand that he discovered while on a secret mission for Mycroft in Dubai. He also grabbed a bigger tube of exfoliant. Unlike most of his exotic beauty products, this exfoliating cream was actually purchased at a nearby Marks & Spencer. He loved the self-heating formula and it always gave his skin a nice glow.

Meanwhile, John was having a bad dream upstairs. In his mind, he saw the arsonist they were interrogating earlier. The arsonist took off his face like a mask and revealed that he was Moriarty. Moriarty then pulled out a gun and before John could do anything, Sherlock was shot in the head.

John jolted awake and sat up on his bed, his body trembling with adrenaline. He realised he was still wearing his jacket and it was making him sweat.  _ A relaxing bath would be nice _ , John thought.  _ A cup of tea, too _ , he mentally added.

John got out of bed, took off his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist. He then made his way down the stairs. When he reached the living room, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Considering the long day they had, John presumed that his friend was already sleeping.

He stood still though when he heard the sound of someone humming. The voice sounded a lot like Sherlock’s and it seemed to come from the bathroom. John readjusted the towel around his waist and proceeded to investigate.

What he saw erased any trace of sleepiness he felt.

Through the partly open door, John saw Sherlock standing in front of the bathroom mirror, applying some kind of charcoal-colored cream on his face. He was wearing nothing but his trousers. Miles of pale skin were on display.

John’s eyes didn’t know where to look. Should he focus on Sherlock’s lovely shoulders? The deep curve in his lower back? The tender swell of his buttocks? To his horror, John felt his cock beginning to react. He should probably go back to his room before ––

“John?” came Sherlock’s voice. John’s face felt hot but he forced himself to look into Sherlock’s eyes, trying his best to look casual.

“Hey,” John began, clearing his throat. When did his voice get so husky?

“I was thinking of taking a bath but it looks like you’re busy. I’ll just come back later,” the doctor explained before hastily walking away, not waiting for any kind of reply from Sherlock.

When he finally reached his room upstairs, he locked his door and leaned against it. His hands were shaking.

_ Shit _ , John thought, looking down at his erection.

Downstairs, Sherlock didn’t move from his spot inside the bathroom. His body was still turned toward the half-open door. He couldn’t erase the image of John wearing nothing but a towel. John’s pupils also seemed to be dilated. And Sherlock could almost swear he saw the beginnings of an erection below John’s waist. But Sherlock shook his head––as if the act alone could discard his current thoughts.  _ John doesn’t want me _ , Sherlock insisted.  _ He will never want me,  _ he thought with a heavy heart.

Sherlock closed his eyes and continued to massage the rose-scented cream into his skin. But images of John continued to crowd his mind––the way his pupils dilated as he looked at Sherlock, the way he involuntarily licked his lips, the telltale bulge below his waist. Sherlock felt his own cock twitch at the memory.

_ Stop imagining things _ , the detective admonished himself. _ The hallway was dimly lit. The data is unreliable. _

Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes, an idea crossing his great mind.

_ That’s it _ , he thought, patting his cheeks to help the cream settle into his pores.  _ I need more data _ , he realized.

Sherlock smiled at his reflection and muttered ––

_ “ _ Time for an experiment.”

  
  



	3. Three: Wednesday, 7:45 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The experiments continue...

Sherlock knew exactly what he hoped it meant––but to theorize without sufficient data in this particular case could be the bitterest mistake of his life. He refused to think of the consequences if he got this one wrong. 

 

He needed more data. And for more data, he needed to observe John observing him, preferably in triplicate. The main problem at this stage of the experiment, Sherlock thought, was that there were simply too many variables. 

 

Sherlock had therefore decided to rise earlier than he usually did and time his morning wash to end just as John would be coming downstairs to use the bathroom and get ready for work. He had deliberately left his clothes in his room, so that he would have a perfectly logical reason to leave the bathroom wearing only a towel. He hadn’t bothered to dry his hair properly, instead leaving it a mess of wet curls. Where would John’s eyes go: the hem of the towel, which dragged, heavy with water, against Sherlock’s thigh? The curls that dripped over his left ear?  Sherlock had cleared off the music stand in his mind palace before leaving the bathroom, ready to fill it with snapshots of John’s reaction when he saw Sherlock emerge from the bathroom. He would gather the data and file it away, then spend the afternoon analyzing it. He didn’t have any cases on at the moment and besides, this could be far more important. He would analyze the data at length and design the next stage of the experiment. 

 

So when Sherlock heard footsteps in the hallway, he took a deep breath, triple-checked that the towel was tucked securely around his waist, and opened the door. 

 

John rounded the corner with his hands full of a clean set of work clothes and his mind on the surgery he was to perform later that day. He did not pay much attention to where he was going or who he was walking straight into. 

 

Sherlock, for his part, was so focused on making sure that his towel looked as if it was precariously secured while actually being snugly tucked in at the top that he didn’t bother to glance around the corner before stepping outside the bathroom. After all, he had estimated that John wouldn’t be descending the stairs for another 2.5 to 3.25 minutes. 

 

John and Sherlock collided. 

 

Both dropped what was in their hands; both crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs. 

 

John recovered first, rolling to the side to let Sherlock up. He grabbed his work clothes off the floor and tucked the bundle under his left arm, then turned and extended his other hand to help Sherlock up, but paused at the last moment. Sherlock’s towel has come untucked and was currently lying uselessly on the floor beneath his hips, covering absolutely nothing. Sherlock’s brain seemed to have stalled,  John guessed, from the mask of utter horror that his face had become and the delicate blush that slowly crept up his cheeks. 

 

John, thinking it best to try and leave at least a shred of his friend’s dignity intact, refused to allow his eyes to wander towards anything Sherlock would not want him to see. He turned and walked stiffly back up the stairs to his room--having a wash could wait. 

 

Something snapped in the back of Sherlock’s mind once John was out of sight, and he scrambled to pick up his towel and fled to his room, slamming the door behind himself and flicking on the lock. (It was a truly pathetic excuse for a lock and would barely slow down anyone with even a marginal lockpicking ability, but John was blessedly deficient in that particular area.)

 

In the safety of his room, Sherlock raged. He threw his wet towel at the door. The loud, soppy thunk that it made on impact was vaguely soothing, and Sherlock continued slamming drawers and banging cabinet doors as he dressed. 

 

“Stupid!” Sherlock hissed to himself. In place of the meticulously controlled experiment he had planned, Sherlock had created a disaster. He has been so horrified by the fall and then stunned by his own reaction to the landing that he had barely registered anything John had done, much less recorded the details of his physiological reactions. 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes--the way John’s hips had oh so briefly rolled against his own as the army doctor had disentangled himself from Sherlock--he didn’t have words to describe how it had felt. He shuffled through a chemistry textbook that was lying open on the bed--

 

Ah. There: liquid mercury; that was it. Heavy and dangerous at standard conditions; one valence electron away from being a noble metal. Silverescent, always in motion. Sloshing around in Sherlock’s stomach with such force that he swayed a little, unsteady on his feet. 

 

The first experiment, he decided, leaning against the solid side of his sock index for support, had been a complete failure.

  
  


That evening, when 5:30 rolled around, Sherlock made sure that he was already in the bathroom and the door securely locked. There would be no spying by John, no unfortunate accidents on Sherlock’s part. The experiment would continue on another day; tonight, he needed his ten minutes of quiet while his eye cream set. 

 

He opened the cabinet, drawing out the small tube that stood by itself behind the WEDNESDAY label. Wednesdays were the resting day in his routine; after the strong exfoliant and foaming cleanser combination that he used on Tuesdays, he applied only a small dab of a gentle cream underneath each eye on Wednesdays. The slightly blue tinged cream (Pantone 2707, he had checked it when he first bought the cream) carried a delicate scent of violets and moss, and never failed to relax Sherlock, regardless of how stressful his day had been or how long a case had remained unsolved, taunting him as this experiment on  John did now. 

 

Sherlock squeezed a droplet of the cream onto his right index finger and closed his eyes. He spread the cream softly along the soft skin underneath his eyes and took a deep breath, willing the morning’s disaster out of focus, and slipping into the music room of his mind palace. This was where he spent most of his time when he was in his mind palace. There was no actual door, as there would be on a physical building, but the music room was where he began when he entered the mind palace and it was where he left himself reminders, where he kept an unfinished tone poem that he worked on whenever he was bored in public and unable to simply leave. 

 

Right now, the tone poem was scattered across a broad, wooden table, its notes etched into the planks as if with a knife. A pile of sticky notes had fallen like leaves from the music stand, and Sherlock leaned over and gathered them up, setting them in a neat row along the music stand. 

 

The scent of violets and moss in his nose, he ran his fingers over the notes on the table, hearing them echo through his ears. This, at least, was still as it should be. The morning’s disaster hadn’t touched the foundations of his mind palace, and everything else could be rebuilt. The experiment would continue, and he would design a second stage that would be easier to control. 

 

He would figure this out. Sherlock stayed there, moving his hands over the notes carved into the table, until he heard a soft bell (he had chosen an E-flat for the tone of the bell, a copy of the C of E bell that he had filched as a child), the reminder he had set for himself that the ten minutes were up.

 

Sherlock left his mind palace, slowly cleaned the remnants of the cream from his eyes, then opened the bathroom door.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We thrive on comments, please let us know what you think <3


	4. Thursday, 4:25 P.M.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets naked (again), John walks out, and interesting things eventually happen.

The following week, on a Thursday, Sherlock prepared to execute the second experiment. The idea came to him one night while he was playing one of Accolay’s violin concertos.

Sherlock looked at his watch as he took it off and placed it on an empty soap dish near the bathroom sink. His guest would arrive in approximately 10 minutes. Just enough time to prep his skin.

Reaching into one of the upper shelves behind a stamped label that read THURSDAY, Sherlock took out his latest purchase––a ridiculously expensive bottle of shimmer lotion that smelled of cherry blossoms. The lady behind the counter promised that it would give his skin an irresistible glow.

“Mmm…” Sherlock purred appreciatively as he opened the bottle, releasing the scent of cherry blossoms into the air. He gently rubbed the silky liquid across his chest, shoulders, thighs––everywhere he could reach. A few moments later, Sherlock stood proudly in front of the bathroom mirror, naked as the day he was born. The shimmering lotion was worth the splurge, after all. His pale skin looked wonderfully soft and radiant. Sherlock grinned at his reflection. Just then, he heard the doorbell ring.

The tall beauty slipped into his blue robe and rushed downstairs to meet his awaited guest.

“Mr. Holmes?” A deep voice inquired as Sherlock opened the door. The man was about Sherlock’s height. He had a lean and slightly muscular physique. His auburn hair was styled in a messy, shoulder-length cut. It was clear to see that the man was fairly attractive.

 _Perfect_ , Sherlock thought, fighting the urge to grin widely.

“Brian. Good to meet you,” Sherlock greeted as he held out his hand. “Welcome to 221B,” the detective continued, closing the door and ushering the young man up the stairs. As he climbed up the steps behind his guest, Sherlock allowed himself to smile a little. He couldn’t wait for the experiment to begin.

 

 

About an hour later, John Watson trudged up the stairs to 221B. It had been a long day at the surgery.

One patient, an agitated 5-year-old with chickenpox, actually tried to bite off his thumb. John shook his head and smiled despite his exhaustion. _Can’t wait to get some tea and biscuits_ , John thought as he opened the door to his flat.

What he saw inside made his heart stop.

“Hello, John,” drawled a very naked Sherlock who was spread out on the sofa. He was lying on his right side, his right arm bent under his head. His other arm was loosely hanging down his chest. Sherlock’s legs were slightly bent up, artfully covering his nether regions. It reminded John of a Watteau painting. The one with the sleeping Antiope. If only John had paid attention to his art history lessons in school.

John didn’t realize he was gaping until Sherlock called his name a second time. “John, that gentleman over there is Brian Carruthers,” the detective explained. “He has been sketching me for the past 60 minutes.”

John blinked in surprise. He didn’t even realize there was another person in the room. John turned around and saw a good-looking man in the corner, sitting behind an easel. For some reason, something hot and unpleasant surged up inside John’s chest. Still, he forced a smile as the other man gave him a greeting nod.

“Is my nudity making you uncomfortable, John?” Sherlock asked. “Perhaps you could grab my robe from the coat rack? I believe we’re almost done here.”

John simply nodded. He walked toward the coat rack behind the door, grabbed Sherlock’s blue robe and gracelessly threw it toward the couch.

“I’ll just come back after dinner,” John uttered when he finally found his voice again.

“John––“ Sherlock started. But John didn’t hear the rest of the words as he closed the door and descended down the stairs, his cheeks burning.

 

 

It had been two hours since John left the flat.

Sherlock was sulking on the sofa, silently berating himself over yet another failed experiment.

Well. It’s wasn’t exactly a waste.

He saw John’s pupils dilate in a brightly lit room. Heck, he was even gaping. Sherlock had to call his name twice to bring him out of his tiny stupor. John seemed mesmerized by Sherlock’s nudity.

But his data was still incomplete.

John was supposed to hand him his robe. He was supposed to come close enough so that Sherlock could feel his wrist and check his pulse.

“Aarrgggghh,” Sherlock groaned into a throw pillow, kicking his feet in the air.

Sherlock replayed the whole scene over and over in his mind until finally, he paused over one minor detail.

The way John smiled at Brian.

Sherlock was intimately familiar with all of John’s smiles. He had a large library in his mind palace dedicated to John’s smiles alone.

John’s smile for Brian certainly didn’t reach his eyes. It was quick and insincere. John also unconsciously puffed up his chest and straightened his posture. Did John feel threatened? Was he jealous?

This train of thought caused Sherlock to finally stand up and clap his hands together.

 _Time for a different kind of experiment_ , Sherlock thought.

 

The next Thursday evening found Sherlock primping himself in front of the bathroom mirror. He was dressed in his favourite purple shirt and a pair of tight, black trousers. The detective was busy taming his curls with a styling mousse. He was expecting John to arrive any minute now.

Ten seconds later, he heard the front door open.

“Sherlock?” John called out.

“In the bathroom,” Sherlock replied, listening as John’s footsteps approached closer.

“Oh,” John breathed as he stopped outside the open bathroom door. “Going somewhere?”

“I have a date,” Sherlock announced nonchalantly as he closed the medicine cabinet.

“A date?” John echoed back.

“Yes, John. It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun,” answered the detective, rolling his eyes. “Or have you forgotten?”

“N-no––no, of course not,” the doctor answered as he stepped aside to let Sherlock pass through the door. He followed behind Sherlock as the taller man walked into the living room.

“So,” John began, putting his hands in his pockets. “Who’s your date?”

“You remember Brian, don’t you?” Sherlock asked, flicking off imaginary lint from his purple shirt.

John could only nod, a tingling feeling creeping up his chest.

“It turns out we have so much in common,” Sherlock continued. “He’s actually quite interesting.”

John inhaled sharply and finally recognized the unpleasant sensation gnawing at his insides.

Jealousy. Pure, unadulterated jealousy.

“How did you meet him?” John wondered, trying to keep his emotions in check.

“He owns a small art school,” Sherlock lied. “Two weeks ago, I helped him recover stolen computers and some art supplies.”

“Burglary?” John chuckled. “I thought small-time crimes were too boring for you?”

Sherlock mentally scolded himself. John knew him far too well.

“I have a soft spot for artists, I suppose,” Sherlock smiled, hoping that his answer was convincing enough for John.

“Well––he seems like a nice guy,” the doctor mused, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock tilted his head and looked at John intently.

“What?” John asked, crossing his arms.

“You want to say something but you’re not sure you should say it,” the detective noted.

“Okay, okay,” John sighed, raising his hands in defeat. “Just––just be careful, alright?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock wondered, his crystal blue eyes searching the other man’s face.

“It’s just that––you once said dating wasn’t your area,” the doctor began, trying hard not to let his voice quiver. “And I know you, Sherlock. You’re intense. You jump into things you’re excited about. You give it your all,” John babbled, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“I’m afraid I don’t see your point, John,” Sherlock pondered, stepping closer toward his friend.

“All I’m saying is––just be sure about this Brian guy before you––b-before you commit to anything, okay?” John offered, licking his lips. “Don’t let him hurt you.”

“Ha!” Sherlock scoffed. “Splendid advice from a man who married an assassin. An assassin who lied about everything––including a child who wasn’t even yours!”

John was stunned into silence, aghast that Sherlock would bring up something he had been trying so hard to forget.

It was a little too late when Sherlock realized just how ugly his words were. John’s face had turned expressionless.

“Maybe you could ask Brian to be your new flatmate, too,” John blurted before turning around and walking out the door.

 

Two hours after John left the flat, Sherlock was still standing in the living room. He can’t remember when he picked up his violin but it was perched against his shoulder now, a comforting weight against his body while his mind felt anything but calm.

Sometimes, Sherlock lovingly, carefully slid the clear, honey-gold bar of rosin across the hair of his bow, hands moving lazily as he inhaled the faint scent of pine from bits of rosin that floated into the air.

This time, he swiped the rosin across the bow in a series of quick jerks, no patience for preparation. He needed this now and if the sound was a little ragged, if the bow ground and slid against the strings more roughly than he usually liked, well, maybe he needed that a little right now too. Needed the ugliness, the scratch as the slightly gritty bow first touched the strings.

Sherlock skipped the scales and the usual études that he would play to warm up his hands and launched straight into the concerto, smashing his fingertips into the strings greedily, chasing after that burn as his soft, unprepared fingertips gave way to harsh metal. There would be bruises afterwards, Sherlock knew. He crushed his raw, unprepared fingertips against the E and A, playing a triplet more roughly than the score technically called for. He hurtled through the first phrases of the tone poem, fingertips heating up as the indentations formed by the opening notes were criss-crossed by the strings as he mashed his fingers against them in slightly different positions. At the brief, three-beat rest he barely paused, taking only the shortest moment before throwing himself back into the music.

Notes poured forth from Sherlock’s violin, notes he would be ashamed for John to hear if he were here. John, he thought, and forced his fingertips harder against the strings, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the bow. A few bow hairs had broken in his fury and he knew he would regret it later, knew he would be wincing as he typed or texted for the next few days, but that was rather the point--not the notes.

The next section was supposed to be slow, but Sherlock played on as he he had before, shoving his bow across the strings too close to the bridge, catching on the other side a few times and causing the violin to shriek in protest. He rushed through the cantabile to the finale, his reddened, purpling fingertips flying over the silver and ebony. Long slashes of tarnished silver were written across his fingertips.

This was a finale meant to be savoured, its quarter notes and dotted half notes suggesting something bright and beautiful, but Sherlock twisted and stretched his now-bruised fingers, forcing the notes meant to be played in a luminous second position into a tortured third.

He missed an accidental, then another, and groaned as he ground his index finger against the heavy G in frustration. Slowing the tempo just enough to be sure he could get his aching, abused fingers to the notes on the E in time for the theme to come through.

Sherlock wrung the final notes of the concerto from his violin, a trio of rich double stops in a minor key, and let the bow drop from his hands, his violin settling back into its case almost of its own accord. His eyes drifted shut and he stayed still for a moment, breathing in the last few motes of rosin dust as they settled out of the air. Later, his shoulders would ache. Later, he would arrange his scarf to cover the angry red patch on his clavicle where the shoulder rest had rubbed his skin raw. Later, he would regret the slashes of tarnish on his purpled fingers, but first he was still, hearing the last few notes of the concerto in his mind.

 

On the other side of town, John Watson finished drinking his third bottle of beer. _How cliché_ , John thought. He knew there were other, more productive ways to deal with his current emotional crisis but sod it. Right now he just wanted to hide in this obscure pub and have one-sided, telepathic conversations with the empty beer bottles in front of him.

 _How pathetic is my life?_ John thought as he glared at Empty Beer Bottle Number 1. _I keep caring too much about people who don’t give a shit about me._

John imagined Empty Beer Bottle Number 1 giving him a sympathetic glance. He turned his eyes to Empty Beer Bottle Number 2, which was standing precariously close to the edge of the table. _My ex-wife was a liar and an assassin,_ John mused. _My best friend faked his death and let me suffer for two whole years._

Empty Beer Bottle Number 2 seemed nonplussed at this revelation, so John decided to focus on Empty Beer Bottle Number 3 which was currently wrapped in the warmth of his now trembling hand.

_And my best friend. This ridiculous man. This brilliant, amazing man whom I am possibly in love with––turns out to be romantically interested in someone else._

Empty Beer Bottle Number 3 seemed to frown in empathy.

Someone giggled.

It took an embarrassing ten seconds for John to realize that it was him who made that sound.

 _Sherlock would probably giggle, too, if he saw me right now,_ John thought. _In fact, he would probably laugh derisively._

“What a sad, little man you are, John Watson,” said the imagined voice of Sherlock in John’s alcohol-addled mind. “Always put upon. Always left behind. Tsk-tsk,” the mocking voice continued. “What did I say about sentiment? Hm?”

A bitter laugh escaped John’s mouth. It was probably for the best that he and Sherlock had this row. He really didn’t mean what he said earlier. He didn’t want to leave Baker Street. Baker Street was home.

But the things that Sherlock said––it struck something raw and painful.

 _Sherlock’s right, you know,_ John mentally remarked, the empty beer bottles still his captive audience. _I keep looking for love in all the wrong places,_ John realized. _I keep giving my love to all the wrong people._

“Time for you to move on, son,” said the bartender as he passed by John. “We’re closing in five minutes.”

“I will, mate,” John replied as he stood up and left some cash on the table. “I will.”

 

The hiss of the tea kettle from the kitchen drew Sherlock out of his reverie. Who--? Ah. Mrs. Hudson, most likely, judging from the plate of her cinnamon-sugar biscuits that had appeared beside it. A mug with a finger of milk in it sat beside the plate of biscuits, and Sherlock felt a stab of guilt that his playing had caused her to be concerned, but...he was grateful for the hot water. Sherlock poured it into the mug and dropped in a bag of tea from John’s stash, his bruised fingers fumbling a little with the lid of the tea tin. He closed his eyes, listening to the boiled water in the kettle settle now that it was unplugged, then after a few moments, took a sip of tea.

Half the mug’s contents later, he reflected that he did not wish to speak with John any time soon, and retreated to the safety of his bedroom with his tea. Sherlock latched the door behind himself and considered the mess before him. A pile of graduate chemistry textbooks teetered on the edge of the dresser, from whose drawers were spilling any number of non-indexed pants and vests. His sock index was in disarray thanks to his preoccupation the past week with a particularly difficult case that had also been very disguise-intensive. His backup stash of his favoured skincare products were in a disordered pile under his bed rather than in their rightful place (the top right drawer of his dresser.)

Sherlock reached out to steady the top volume in the pile as he pushed the stack of textbooks towards the centre of the dresser. The 1976 edition of Recent Advanced in Ecology--hmm. Sherlock settled on the floor with his back against the bed, the book in one hand, and his tea in the other. Sometimes, there was the most fascinating unfinished research in these old journals…

 

It was ten minutes past three in the morning when a slightly tipsy John Watson finally trudged up the stairs to 221B. He took his time, treading on the steps in an almost reverent manner. He would probably be gone in the next few days and he wanted to remember. He wanted to remember everything about 221B. The feel of it. The sounds it made. The way it smelled.

John paused on top of the stairs for a moment, trying to collect himself for a possible confrontation with Sherlock but the flat seemed quiet. He gingerly opened the door and found the living room empty. Letting out a relieved breath, John slowly approached the center of the room, touching things and looking around at the bits and pieces that made 221B home. But John knew it wasn’t the odd knick-knacks that made this flat special. It was a person. One particular person.

 _Damn you, Sherlock,_ John thought as he forced down a strange lump creeping up his throat. _Why did I have to find you so damn lovable?_

Fighting the urge to cry near Sherlock’s chair, John quietly rushed to the bathroom. _Pull yourself together,_ Watson, John thought as he started to run a bath while taking off his clothes. _You will survive this,_ he thought.

_You have to survive this._

 

It was the sound of a key in the door that drew Sherlock’s attention out of his book. He closed his eyes, tracing John’s path through the sound of his footsteps as he shut the door and walked to the stairs. The fifth stair creaked as always, and he heard John’s bedroom door open and...not close. Ah. The fifth stair creaked again, and now John’s footsteps were coming closer. Sherlock pressed an ear to his door.

The footsteps paused outside Sherlock’s bedroom door, then abruptly turned to the left as the bathroom door squeaked open. Sherlock listened carefully, but did not hear the latch fall into place. Well, then. The phrase “you’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson” echoed in his mind.

He waited a few moments, making sure he heard the faucet turning on and John’s inebriated, mumbled curses as he stumbled his way into the bath. There were a few splashes (John dropping the soap, then a washcloth, and finally his opened shampoo bottle, Sherlock theorized, based on the noise) followed by some half-hearted curses, and then it was time.

 _Battle stations_ , Sherlock thought, glancing down at his wrinkled robe and running a hand through his curls to dishevel them further. He was glad he had sprayed down his bedroom door with WD-40 earlier in the week; it would have been a terrible start to his plan to be foiled by a squeaky hinge. Letting out a breath he would never admit to have been holding, Sherlock rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door.

“Sod off, Sherlock,” John yelled. “I’m taking a bath. Leave a man in peace for once.”

“I need to do my exfoliating,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice level. “There’s a schedule.”

“Do it in the morning.”

“That’s not how schedules work, John,” Sherlock snapped back, seeing no reason to keep his very real irritation from his voice.

“I don’t care.” John was shouting now.

“I don’t care that you don’t care.” Sherlock glared at the bathroom door as if it was at fault.

“I know you don’t care!” There was another note in John’s voice besides anger now, one that Sherlock could not easily identify.

This was not going the way Sherlock had planned. John was supposed to let him in the bathroom to do his exfoliating, and then John would see, and then he would probably kiss Sherlock, and then---well. And then things would be better, whatever that meant.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock said coolly, pushing the bathroom door open and stepping inside. Enough of this.

He did not look at John, but opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a bottle at random. Something pinged in the back of his brain, an itch of _wrong wrong wrong_ that would only grow in strength if he actually used the Sunday bottle that he had apparently grabbed on today, a Thursday, but Sherlock ignored it. He flicked the cap open, not paying attention to how much he put on his hand or the evenness of the layer of cream as smeared it across his face. It didn’t matter. He stared at the sink. How to fix this?

“You know exactly what I mean,” John said. His initial anger had cooled and he dropped into his Captain Watson voice. “You invade my bathtime and now you won’t talk to me? I don’t think so. Turn around, Sherlock Holmes.”

 _Resist_ , Sherlock told himself sternly, squashing his initial urge to obey. _Don’t listen to him_. Sherlock leaned forward and peered into the mirror, smoothing some of the cream into the skin behind his left ear.

“Dammit Sherlock, listen to me!” John stood up suddenly, grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and spun him around. “You do not get to come in here and wreck my bath and then not talk about this!”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down, taking in the parts of John that were no longer covered by bubbles from the spilled shampoo bottle. His face flushed--this was not in one of the three possible outcomes of the conversation that he had planned for and he wasn’t sure what to do.

Panicking, Sherlock fled from the bathroom, his mind a white-hot mess. He found himself stopping in the middle of the kitchen.

A wet, angry and half-naked John Watson followed behind him.

“I’m sick and tired of this, Sherlock,” John growled as he glared at the back of the taller man’s head.

“We haven’t been the same––not since you came back,” the doctor continued, his left hand trembling as it gripped the towel around his waist.

“I think––I think we’ve changed, Sherlock. Everything has changed.”

Sherlock finally turned around to face John.

“As sentimental as this sounds, we’re just––we’ve lost that thing––that thing that used to make us work so well together,” John croaked, willing away the lump that was forming in this throat.

 _And what’s worse is that I’m hopelessly in love with you_ , John added mentally.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, John,” Sherlock blurted out in a quivering voice. “That thing I said about Mary––I didn’t––I never––”

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” John interjected. “You had a point, you know? I shouldn’t be meddling with your love life when my own is so depressing,” the older man chuckled, his anger transforming into bitter resignation.

“I don’t have a love life, John,” Sherlock muttered, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Oh,” John replied, tilting his head to the side. “D-did––did you cancel your date because we had a row? I––I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t ––“

“There was never a date, John. I never saw or spoke to Brian again. ”

“Then why did ––“

“I just wanted to see.”

“See what?”

…

“See what, Sherlock?”

…

“Sherlock?”

…

“I just wanted to see if you would get jealous.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry, John, forget about it. I wasn’t––“

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“I’m going to ask you a question, Sherlock. And I need you to tell me the truth.”

“And what question would that be?”

“Sherlock Holmes––do you have feelings for me?”

“Feelings? Of what nature, John?”

“Don’t be a smart-arse, Sherlock. Answer the question.”

…

“I’ll take your silence as a ‘no’ then.”

“Don’t be an idiot, John.”

“It’s just that I never know where I stand with you.”

“Well, I’m terrified, John! I’ve never felt this way before!”

“I asked you a simple question. Just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no!’”

“My feelings for you aren’t that simple. They’re not easy to explain.”

“Try me.”

…

“I’m standing here in nothing but a towel, Sherlock. I might die of hypothermia soon.”

“Always so dramatic, John.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Hmph.”

“You know what? Forget it. This is just another one of your experiments, isn’t it? Unbeliev––“

“I don’t know how to be without you anymore.”

…

“It’s almost as if you’re one of my vital organs now, John. It’s inconvenient, really. I used to think I was better off alone but now, when I try to imagine life without you, I find the thought so unbearable that––mmmpphhh!!!”

 

Sherlock felt like he was on fire. John’s soft lips were moving against his own. John’s hands were sending sparks of electricity everywhere they touched his skin. He was drowning. He was drowning. He was drowning. And all he could think was: _What an exquisite way to die._

“Breathe, Sherlock,” came John’s raspy whisper, his nose nuzzling Sherlock’s own. The detective was panting heavily, his body trembling under John’s touch.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his hands gripping the doctor’s arms. “I know we just had our first kiss but––w-would you––would you think it improper if I asked you to take me to bed right now?”

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing,” John hummed as he suddenly lifted Sherlock like a groom carrying his bride.

Sherlock gasped in surprise, a surge of lust shooting up his belly when he realized how easily John had picked him up off the floor. His John. His strong, wonderful John who was about to take him to bed. Sherlock shivered at the thought.

With impressive ease, John walked down the hall with six feet of detective in his arms. When they finally reached Sherlock’s room, John laid the taller man on the bed with painstaking tenderness.

For a few moments, John simply hovered over Sherlock, nuzzling his hair, his nose, and his cheekbones before finally making a move to unbutton his friend’s purple shirt.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s trembling hands covered John’s––as though in a half-hearted attempt to stop the amorous proceedings. The former soldier glanced up at the other man’s face. Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something––but the words seemed stuck in his throat.

"You have no idea what you're doing at all, do you love?" Johns voice was fond.

"Um. Well. Theoretically––" Sherlock trailed off a bit.

"It's fine. It's all fine," John replied, smoothing his hair. "Now, where were we?"

Sherlock released what sounded like a sigh of relief and let go of John’s hands. The doctor continued to slowly undress his best friend, kissing each patch of exposed skin as he went along. He stopped when he reached the button of Sherlock’s trousers, looking up as if to ask for permission.

With a shaky breath, Sherlock nodded his consent, his pupils blown wide with arousal. John ached with love for this beautiful creature who was now choosing to lay himself bare before him. He crept up the bed, cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, and claimed his mouth, pouring every ounce of emotion into his kiss.

“Tell me what you need, Sherlock,” John sighed when they finally broke apart for air. “I’m yours,” he murmured as he planted kisses on that long, pale neck. “I’ll give you anything you need,” John panted. “Anything.”

Unable to form words, a glassy-eyed Sherlock simply arched his body toward John, a small whimper escaping his swollen lips. Instinctively, John pressed down against the detective, rubbing their rock-hard erections against each other.

“John!” came Sherlock’s tremulous moan. John smiled as he trailed kisses down Sherlock’s body and removed the rest of the younger man’s clothes.

When Sherlock was finally, completely naked, John took a moment to sit back and drink in the magnificent beauty before him. Sherlock’s graceful form was all long lines and lean muscle. His elegant legs seemed to go on for miles. John let his hand wander up one shapely leg until it reached the milky smoothness of Sherlock’s quivering thigh––and then he reached higher, tracing the detective’s Adonis belt with his thumb, intentionally avoiding the very place where John knew Sherlock needed him the most.

“J-John,” Sherlock whined, the taut muscles of his stomach quivering with every breath. “P-pleathe,” he panted, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Pleathe, John.”

John held his breath, mustering up all his strength to not pound into Sherlock right then and there. The lisp appeared rarely––only when Sherlock was incredibly exhausted. But now, hearing Sherlock lisp while begging for release sent a shockwave of lust through John’s system.

“Please what, Sherlock?” John whispered as he bent down to gently nibble on one creamy thigh.

“In––inthide,” Sherlock gasped, his hips involuntarily thrusting up in the air. “Inthide me, Jawn, pleathe.”

“I’ll get there, love,” John promised, picking up a pillow to place it under Sherlock’s lovely bum. With John’s mouth dangerously close to his leaking cock, Sherlock curled his toes, anticipating his first ever blow job. But John, surprising as ever, ignored Sherlock’s cock and went farther down to graze his lips against Sherlock’s fluttering hole.

“J-John? W-what––UNGHHH!” Sherlock bucked and moaned when he felt John’s tongue touch the most intimate part of him. John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s thighs as he continued his ministrations, slowly swirling his tongue around Sherlock’s rim. When John finally breached the quivering hole, a loud sob tore through Sherlock, waves of intense pleasure shaking him to the core.

John lifted his head for a moment, worried that he might have pushed Sherlock too far, too soon.

“You can tell me to stop, love. If it’s too much, we can—”

“N-no,” Sherlock sobbed, tears falling down his pretty face. “‘I’m n-not going to latht, John. N-need you in me––in me, now.”

“Lube,” John rasped out, finally taking off his towel. With great effort, Sherlock lifted his head to watch John strip himself. Now that he had a much better view than earlier in the bathroom, Sherlock’s mouth watered at the sight of John’s larger-than-average cock. It was much thicker than he had deduced.

“R-right––right drawer,” Sherlock whimpered, mesmerized by the sight of John’s strong and compact body.

John took his time in preparing Sherlock, soothing him with kisses and hushed praises.

“John, John, John,” chanted Sherlock, almost delirious with want, his pale body undulating restlessly on the sheets.

The older man finally took pity and settled between the younger man’s thighs. In one fluid motion, he slowly pressed into Sherlock, drawing out loud moans from both of them.

Sherlock was dying. He was sure of it. The hot, delicious drag of John’s cock sliding in and out of his body was maddening. He never imagined it could be this incredible. He could feel John’s heart beating so close to his own. It almost felt like they had become one person. There was nothing but John. Everything was John. It was all too much but not enough at the same time. He wanted to crawl inside John’s skin and never leave. He wanted more. So much more. And he was frightened by how much he wanted. Oh, how he wanted.

For a few seconds, John and Sherlock locked eyes while they moved together. Sherlock was blown away by the love and desire that he found in John’s gaze, achingly sincere and open for him to see. Sherlock couldn’t hold back his tears. Before he even knew what was happening, his body shook violently and he felt himself screaming. The intensity of his orgasm almost knocked him unconscious.

“That––was amazing,” John gasped a few moments later, gently wiping his cum off Sherlock’s skin with his towel. Sherlock wasn’t quite back on planet Earth just yet and could only manage a small sigh.

“Remind me to send Brian a ‘thank you' note,” John quipped.

This finally got Sherlock’s attention. He turned to his side to give John a strange look.

  
John snorted. Sherlock giggled. Soon, both of them were laughing in each other’s arms.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last, the epilogue! John and Sherlock have been through a lot but now it's time for softness and silliness.

“There’s two pink ones,” John said, inspecting the medicine cabinet. “Hey.” He leaned his head around the side of the bathroom door and called into the kitchen. “How do I know which pink one?”

 

“It’s not ‘pink’, it’s cerise,” Sherlock shouted back over the sound of a blowtorch, “and it says face mask on it. I’m almost done with the toes, I’ll be there in a minute.”

 

John eyed the two pink jars. They were nearly indistinguishable to him in shade, and both were labeled with neatly hand-printed words in alphabets he didn’t recognize. He picked up the taller jar and unscrewed the lid, dabbing his finger into it to get a whiff. Sea grass and violets, he thought. The consistency seemed wrong for a face mask, but admittedly he hadn’t used one before. He put the jar down and inspected the other one. 

 

It had a wider brim, and the consistency of the stuff inside it was more sludge-like and smelled mainly of cedar. 

 

“That one’s a sugar scrub,” Sherlock said, pulling off a pair of shielded lab glasses and dropping them on the floor outside the bathroom door. “The other one’s the face mask.”

 

“Where did these even come from?” John asked, capping the sugar scrub and putting it back on the shelf. 

 

“That one’s from Tibet, there’s a remarkable chemist that I met there who makes this stuff mostly just as a hobby, but she was willing to sell me a few jars when I told her which of her employees was stealing out of the till,” Sherlock started. 

 

“Of course she was,” John said fondly. “And now you write regularly and she advises you on some kind of synthesis you’re working on--did I get it right?”

 

“Pretty much,” Sherlock admitted.

 

“So what’s the story with this one?” John asked, inspecting the label of the taller bottle. 

 

“I found the recipe for it written in the margins of a gospel manuscript that I found when i was hiding from some organized crime bosses I’d been tracking outside of Novosibirsk,” Sherlock said. “They had been using the crypt of a medieval church as their meeting point, and they didn’t realize that it had another even older level below it. I had to stay up for two days straight waiting for them, and I kept myself awake by reading everything I could find. There were a surprising number of well-preserved manuscripts down there.”

 

“So this is...what?” John eyed the bottle with sudden suspicion. 

 

“I think it was originally meant to ward away vampires, but with very few changes to the ingredients it makes a good face mask,” Sherlock said. 

 

“But this isn’t Cyrillic,” John said, pointing at the lettering. “I’d recognize that, even if I can’t read it.”

 

“Old Church Slavonic,” Sherlock said. “It seemed right to keep the label in the original language.”

 

“So you stayed up for two days reading anti-vampire potion recipes in a dead language underneath a medieval church crypt? I don’t believe that for a minute.”

 

“Fine. There might have been a small amount of vodka involved. A  _ small _ amount,” Sherlock insisted when John gave him a stern look.

 

“So basically you got plastered in a crypt somewhere in Russia and somehow came out of the experience with a face mask recipe?” John was skeptical. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“And what percent of that ridiculous story is actually true?” John crossed his arms. 

 

“Oh, fine, none of it. I made the label as a joke. It’s from Penhaligon’s.”

 

John stared at Sherlock, who glared back at him. “You told a joke.  _ You.  _ Told a  _ joke. _ ”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and opening the jar with perhaps more force than strictly necessary, unscrewed the lid and dabbed a bit onto the tip of his index finger. 

 

“Let it set for a half hour, and then wash it off,” he said, smoothing the pale violet cream onto John’s cheeks. 

 

“What am I supposed to do while it’s setting?” John asked, a note of mischief in his voice. 

 

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Sherlock replied, and winked.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave us a comment and let us know if you liked it :)


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